


the storm, the blackout, the quiet sea

by buckyjerkbarnes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 08 x 05 fix it, Angst with a Happy Ending, Communication, D & D... if you're out there... know I'm Big Mad, F/M, Fix-It, Healing, I might be new here, Jaime's a knucklehead but he's OUR knucklehead, but even I know that was some BAD writing, card carrying member of the jaime lannister is alive clown club, cersei doesn't deserve redemption, the violence tag is for cersei's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-03-04 23:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18822916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyjerkbarnes/pseuds/buckyjerkbarnes
Summary: "You're shaking," Brienne said, an observation. A marvel."Of course I am shaking," Jaime countered, and huh, he was trembling like a branch in a strong breeze. A vulnerable specimen under the intensity of her gaze. "You have my heart in your hands."[Or: Cersei dies, Jaime lives (with his character arc in-fucking-TACT!), and Brienne gets the apology she deserves. Hop in for the happy ending we were robbed of.]





	the storm, the blackout, the quiet sea

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first GoT fic but like... holy shit ya'll I couldn't sit this one out after THAT absolute destruction of Jaime's character arc.
> 
> named for "so far so fast" by the national
> 
> 6/23/19: can I just say ya'll are so kind with your kudos and comments omg I love you ALL

For a moment, Jaime forgot himself. 

Between one blink and the next, his sister and the light behind her silhouette faded into the sound and sight of Brienne sobbing for him at the gates of Winterfell. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, slinging such foul words her way when he wanted nothing more than to hold her in his arms, to press kiss after kiss to her hair, and say  _I will never let you go, so long as you'll have me._ If he did not break her sweet maiden heart, she would've followed him and he— Jaime— Jaime refused to lose Brienne. The mere thought of her cold and blue-lipped, of burning her body on some pyre while he could do nothing but look and look and  _look_  as she returned to the ash whence she came made him physically ill, sent the stump of his right hand throbbing with phantom pain. 

His lady knight was everything, and if he were to die today, Jaime would leave this world with her mouth and her body the last to know his. 

It was only a moment, but it was long enough for Cersei to get close, to press a hand to his side and frown down at the blood on her fingertips when she pulled away.

"Your pirate did what Bronn could not," Jaime snarked, his mouth a rigid line when her green eyes snapped up to his, hardening like burning emeralds in her face. The vulnerable facade faded as fast as it had come. 

"Why did you come, Jaime? To gloat? To tell me you were right?" 

"No," he murmured, flinching at the screams below— the sound of the men, women, and children he'd killed the Mad King to save them from a similar fate. He must appear to have a perpetual twitch, obvious enough that Cersei spotted it, that she laughed in something like satisfaction and something like bastardized mirth. 

"Oh, you bleeding heart," she snarled, digging her thumb into the gash on Jaime's side just to rip a gasp between his teeth. Ceresi was an ugly creature and the way her lips curled back over her teeth and her hair was ruffled by the ash in the wind, she looked every inch the fierce lioness. He could _see_ her, now. She could hide from him no longer. "You fool. To think the Dragon Queen better than me, to think that her reign might outshine my own." 

Jaime did not take her bait, did not rise to meet her bile with spitting words of his own. Oh, he could jab and slip his insults like knives between the rungs of her ribs, but it would be a waste of breath. She had so little of those left, and there was no telling if he had as many to spare, either. The world was burning, was collapsing into hunks of broken infrastructure. The pleas for mercy and the horrified yells of grief had only increased, would only rise in number as the attack lengthened. 

He had loved Cersei, once, and she, in her own twisted way, had cared for him to some degree. Where Jaime had moved heaven and earth to ensure Cersei's happiness, his twin had done little to nothing to secure his own. It seemed so many cogs in the game of thrones had their flaws: madness, lust for power, an affection for sadism. He knew, now, that his fault was his selflessness. Cersei had always known, had played on the fact he was a romantic at heart, that he would cut away and give out pieces of himself until there was nothing left but a hollow vessel if it made his dear sister smile in the slightest. 

(The world blurred again. Brienne appeared before him in full armor and Oathkeeper at her hip, shining and fierce and his, Gods, for a shining instant she had been _his_ and he had been wholly hers. Jaime thought of her in the firelight of their northern haven, her long, pale body wrapped around his. How she would urge him to take off his golden hand before he came to bed, how she'd kiss his nose because it made him giggle like a boy and made those blue eyes of hers crinkle at the corners in amusement. He thought of that pink dress she'd worn the day he'd saved her from the bear pit, her proud smile when she stood from bended knee as a Ser, the first of her kind in all of Westeros.)

"Why do you just stand there?" his sister snapped, shoving him, smacking his chest with the flats of her hands. It broke Jaime from his faint spell. "Why do you say nothing?" 

And Jaime let his golden hand drop to Cersei's hip, not exactly surprised at the absence of a half-moon swollen with life under her robes. _Another lie, then,_ Jaime noted against the bile lining his mouth.  _Let it be her last._

"You were right," he murmured, finally. His flesh hand curled to the side of her throat, his thumb settling under her chin. Jaime could feel little below the neck, wondered how long he'd be able to keep standing, if his strength would continue to leave him as fast as his blood. "I will give you that. We came into the world together and together— ," he began to squeeze, gripping at the line of flesh until his knuckles blanched. "— we shall leave it." 

Cersei's eyes bulged, her legs kicking out at his as her hands clawed at his arm, leaving long welts in her wake, birthing bruises on his shins and knees. She gasped his name, not quite a plea. A hiss, really. She was too prideful to beg and he did not let his mouth slip into a frown, didn't let any thought or feeling that may surface in his mind filter out behind his eyes, because he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing that taking her life wounded him in a way he would never fully be able to express. 

She had no final words, nothing pressed into the air between them. Too often her clever mouth had deceived him, but not today. 

Something vital snapped under his fingertips and Cersei went limp even as her eyes remained open, blood vessels broken and accusing and he lowered her to the stone floor, cradling her head as he did. His touch did not linger and once he was flat on his backside, Jaime could not force his legs to support his weight, could not rise to stumble from the Red Keep, to search the streets for a horse that hadn't been burned alive to ride with haste to Winterfell, to Brienne, the other half of his heart—

He reached out to glide two fingertips over Cersei's eyelids. 

They would add the name  _Queenslayer_ to his page in the White Book. The prospect didn't make him ache as much as he believed it might, not when they were found, when news spread that Jaime Lannister's hand fit perfectly to the budding bruises at his former sister-lover's throat. Tyrion would understand, would get out of the mess alive, surely: with a mind as clever as his, Jaime had little doubt he'd see the end of the war. And Brienne— he— fuck, he hoped that once a raven delivered word of his act to Sansa, Brienne wouldn't hate him so much for leaving. That she would understand, too. 

He would not see her again for a long, long time and the fight in his body gave way, sent him slumping onto his side away from Cersei, facing the open mouth of the balcony. Daenerys's dragon roared on, launching columns of fire from his fierce jowls. Smoke threatened to strangle him from the inside out and when Jaime coughed, tried to clear his lungs, he felt the wet heat of blood spluttering onto his chin.

The last thought to pass through his muddled mind was this:

_How terrible a thing, to be free only in the end._

 

*

 

It was not the end. 

 

*

 

He came to briefly, too briefly, and caught sight of the open sky above. The heavens were so clear, the stars like chunks of sapphires overhead.

Jaime blinked.

His vision focused and those sapphires were Brienne's eyes, peering down at him with cool detachment.  _You did that to her,_ he thought, foggy and fighting down against the rising wave of hysteria because he was dead and she shouldn't be wherever he was. The prospect was as sharp as a sword plunged into his throat.  _You_ hurt _her._

"You're here," he croaked out, hand slipping where it'd been curled to his chest. He tried to touch her face, but she jerked back before he could trace the line of her cheek, before he could see if his hand passed right through her and her body vanished like vapors in the night. "Are— are you here?" 

She grunted, training her sight on a point across the room. Tent. They appeared to be in some sort of command tent if the array of maps and candles and the sheer size of the structure were any indication. 

"Brie—" he started, tried again.

"You were stabbed twice," Brienne said and even her voice was clipped, was gripping him at arm's length. "You would've died if Lord Tyrion hadn't found you when he did." 

He should thank her, should say _I'm so glad your face is the one I saw when I stirred,_ but he didn't know if that would make her slip away, if she'd strike him or not. So Jaime pressed with: "Where is he? Where is my brother?"

Brienne paused, too long for Jaime to be remotely at ease. "He's fine. Queen Daenerys knows that he released you from her camp, but she is taking into consideration that you—," and she faltered, jaw clipping shut. Her gaze was far away. "—that you did what you did. She's keeping him close." 

Ash still tickled at his skin, echoes of smoke searing at his nostrils. "The fucking  _Queen_ burned down the bloody city I killed her father to save," Jaime hissed, trying and failing to sit up, not when he was thoroughly winded by the tug of his wounds on either side of his back. He felt the blood rush from his face, heart rising and seizing and Brienne's hand landed on his chest, a firm heat that pushed him flat onto the cot. "It was for nothing. All of it." 

She said nothing, did not deny it. There were dark circles under her eyes, her cheekbones standing far too close to the surface. When had she last eaten? Or slept for that matter? Had she been here with him the entire time, standing vigil over his sickbed? And how long had he been here, Tyrion on a short-leash at the Mad Queen's side and where the fuck was Pod to keep Brienne company? Gods above, he never thought he'd see her again and Jaime knew her well enough to see beyond the armor she carefully catered her true feelings behind. _You hurt her,_ he repeated, the trio of words echoing through his mind, never settling, never giving him time to catch his breath. He wanted to hold Brienne close, to bury his nose in the soft spot between her neck and shoulder, but he'd lost that privilege. He may never regain it again.  

"You should drink the milk of the poppy," she muttered finally at his distress. "You ought to rest." 

"No," Jaime insisted. He had not torn his gaze from her once, battling against moving closer and the urge to remain still despite the itching stiffness of his frame. "I want to look upon your face. I don't want it out of my sight. Not so soon." 

Her back straightened. The rounds of her cheeks colored faintly. 

"Brienne," he said, too sharp, too desperate, as a flinch rippled through her face. "Please,  _please,_ look at me?" 

She didn't, her mouth thinning at the corners. 

"You stubborn wench," Jaime choked, and her head did whip his direction, then, and he could have been punched in the gut for how hard he exhaled. It all came rushing out of him, like poison sapped from a wound: "I was the only one that could do it. That could get close to Cersei." Brienne flinched at the name. He'd done that to her, too, and he stuttered through the rest, quick and clear and willing for her to at least consider his declaration before she turned on her heal and it was her he had to watch walk away. "If you had accompanied me, if you had been in the room when it happened, she would've known— would've seen what exists between you and I." 

"You—," she burst out, her hand still flattened to his chest, over his pounding heart. "You think that would've stopped me?" 

 _There she is,_ Jaime thought and he had the most absurd urge to laugh. 

"Do you know she would've had you killed? It wouldn't have been kind. She'd have had the Mountain cut away at you piece by piece or beaten you u-until you— or— or poisoned you and chained the pair of us up just out of reach, close enough that I would see your light dim, but I could not touch you, do you know _that_?" 

Brienne was always a fair creature, but she was as pale as a fresh Northern snowfall, trying her damnedest to hide the way her lower lip trembled. His words had affected her and Jaime was encouraged to keep speaking:

"Cersei was a cruel woman. She cared for little besides herself and her children, and with all of her children dead, with her mind altered by the desire to keep the Iron Throne, she would've found such joy in hurting you. In doing it just to torture me. I couldn't— I  _cannot_ — lose you, do you hear me? If I did— I—," and he was suddenly drowning in his agony, tears dappling his cheeks. He couldn't breathe nor force air to move out of his lungs as it hitched somewhere between his mouth and his core and Jaime—

And then Brienne was there, leaning into his space, her thumb a hot brand along the half-moons under his eyes. Her eyes are wet, he noticed, and Jaime wanted to vomit for having made her cry yet again. 

"If you did, it would what?" 

He forced out a gasp, forced his tongue to work: "The loss of my hand would pale in comparison. I've seen men sliced from navel to neck, everything inside of them spilling into their arms, and I know— I know it, Brienne— if something were to happen to you, it would've paled, too. You've grown in me like a root. An old, unshakable root that changed me more than you could ever know and if you'd left this world and I had been the cause of it, I would sooner pitch myself into the mouth of that fucking dragon than live another day without you." 

Disbelief had been building in her features, her spine so stiff a well-aimed pebble could send her bowing over. But  _there._ There beneath the surface where she thought he couldn't see, Jaime spotted the spark of hope. 

"Our time at Winterfell," he swallowed past the barbs lining his mouth, but he must voice this truth. She had helped him heal and so he must do the same for her, in any capacity that he could. "Was the happiest of my life. Every word I said to you at the gates— sweetling, I didn't mean them. They were lies. Horrible, horrible lies, Brienne, I hurt you—"

"You did," she whispered, that spark diminishing, not daring to find the strength of a wildfire. _She doesn't believe me_. "You hurt me." 

"I turned around twenty times that night," Jaime confessed, remembering how his horse had huffed at him for each sharp jerk of the reigns, how he'd wept and snot had rushed from his nose. How even when morning came her pleas rang clear as bells in his ears, how he'd wished he'd written a letter in his childish script, how he wished he'd tucked that note in the lion's mouth on the end of her sword so she would know how loved she was by him, so there would be no need for doubt to plague her. "I wanted nothing more than to come back to you, to slip into bed and hold you close with the furs drawn over the window to play at ignoring the rest of the world. I want nothing more than that, now." 

She'd pinked further, blushing to the tips of her ears. 

"I know it must be difficult for you to believe," he murmured. "But I have never been more sorry for anything in my life than leaving you behind. I'm so, so sorry, Brienne. If you were to not forgive me, I—," his eyes clenched shut, an abortive attempt at regaining his composure. "I would understand. I would." 

Quietly, so low he wondered if he'd misheard her, Brienne mumbled: "And what if I did?" 

It was the easiest thing in the world, responding to that. 

"Then," Jaime said quietly, letting his hand move from his hip to cover her fingers, giving hers a warm, tender squeeze. "I would spend the rest of my days at your side, proving my affections are no farce. That my love for you runs stronger and deeper than I can ever articulate." 

"Your love?" she asked, as if such a thing never occurred to her. As if there was the slimmest chance that her name hadn't been etched into his bones for years.

His body had known hers almost nightly in Winterfell, in those precious, precious weeks before he left. They spoke of things they had told no one but the other, voiced quiet concerns about the war, traded anecdotes about their childhoods, about Tarth and Casterly Rock. She spoke about Pod, about her wish to knight him, how she held back because he'd be sent with the Dragon Queen's army. He told her, the first morning after they laid with one another, when she'd caught him slipping out of bed and making to dress before she'd woke, that he'd not expected her to want him to stay. That he'd have understood if she kicked him back to his own quarters, did not say  _because that's what Cersei_ _would've done_ , and Brienne heard it anyway, had hooked one of her legs around his hips to keep him close. 

And for all they said, there were vital things that were never voiced. He should've. Every fucking moment he was with her, Jaime should've shouted them, painted them into her skin. Should've punctuated every kiss or embrace with them. He told her as much, scarcely blinking for fear he'd miss the realization as it struck her. 

"You're shaking," Brienne said, instead, an observation. A marvel. 

"Of course I'm shaking," he countered, and huh, he _was_ trembling like a branch in a strong breeze. A vulnerable specimen under the intensity of her gaze. "You have my heart in your hands." 

Her free hand moved to cup his face and he tipped into her warmth, found her little spark had, indeed, lit into a full, booming flame. 

"You're a fool," Brienne bit out, surging in to fuse their mouths together. It was a mean kiss, but he would take anything she was willing to give him. Her teeth dug into his lower lip, her nose crushed uncomfortably against his and he lifted his hand to palm at the side of her head, thumb stroking at her soft hair. She parted from him to growl: "You're a self-sacrificing idiot who can't be bothered to tell the people who care about you that you're about to ride off on a bloody suicide mission—"

"I lived—"

" _Barely_!" 

"That's me, though," Jaime confirmed, delighted, pressing their foreheads together. "Your idiot." 

She kissed him again, softer, so soft his teeth ached.

"I love you," Brienne told him and she broke into a smile of her own at his surprise, a bright, toothy thing and his chest expanded with her declaration and Jaime couldn't recall the feel of cold. Not with her, here. Not with her fingers at his face and her shoulders rising and falling with sweet, sweet breath. "You foolish man." 

"Do you really?" he couldn't help but prompt, not unkindly. 

"With all I have," she murmured, beautiful and his, all his, so long as she would have him. "And if you make me regret it, I'll run you through with your sword." 

"I love you, too," Jaime breathed. "Oh, my heart, how I love you."

And Brienne believed him, bloomed for him, the first sign of spring. 

**Author's Note:**

> And then they ride north, Brienne becomes the head of Sansa's queens guard, Jaime is respected widely for his sacrifices, before eventually moving to tarth and they live happily every after because I SAID SO. tbh I'm at the point of just... waiting for George RR Martin to save us all w/ actual canon. let me know what you think in the comments/rant about that TRASH episode down below!


End file.
